Page 9 of The Moorwitch

While I sew, Carolina runs her hand over my thin coverlet and sings under her breath, an old song every child knows.

In the shadows ’neath your bed,

She spins her spells with spider’s thread,

Her hair is black, her eyes are red,

And if she sees you, you are dead.

Her song makes me shiver.

“One day,” says Carolina, “I’ll Weave a spell to catch a faerie and wish for it to take me to faerie land, and I’ll learn to fly and never be cold again. Do you believe in faeries, Sister Rose?”

My lips thin; that icy fear returns, crackling over my heart like frost. Like a cold hand on my shoulder. I recall the glimpse I had through the school’s window, of the silver-eyed man, but push it away. “I believe we must make our own magic.”

The spellknot is done. When I channel into it, it glows like an ember on the fabric of Carolina’s thin wool skirt. This time, the magicdoesn’t fail me. The light fades after a moment, sinking into the thread and binding to its fibers.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods miserably. “Don’t leave us. You can’t. Sister Agatha’s not nearly so nice as you!”

“You just keep your mind on your work,” I tell her, trying to hide how her words tug at my weary heart. I wrap her hand in mine. “Be patient with your thread and keep your needles sharp. You’ll be a fine Weaver one day, Carolina.”

“But I’ll miss you!” Carolina complains. “Are you leaving because of your gentleman friend? Is he come to take you away and marry you?”

“My—what?”

“Your gentleman friend. The tall one with the white hair. He told me to tell you he’d be along shortly to—ouch!”

I realize I’ve been squeezing her hand tighter and tighter. Releasing it with a wince, I murmur an apology that I cannot hear for the blood roaring in my ears.

“Tall, with white hair?” I ask her. “Are you sure? Was he elderly?”

“No,” she says with a frown, rubbing her hand. “He looked about the same age as you.”

Dread sinks through me like an anchor in deep water.

“What did he say, Carolina? When did he—?”

A knock sounds at the door.

I jolt to my feet, forcing my clammy hands to Weave a quick fireknot for better light. Pulling Carolina close, I watch the door and pray the sound was a trick of my imagination. That there was no knock. That there is no one standing on the other—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I drag in a ragged breath, the flame dancing over my hand nearly flickering out as my fingers tremble.

“Are you going to answer it?” Carolina whispers.

I glance down at her, then back at the door. I force myself forward, one step at a time, and clear my throat. Pressing my palm to the door, I lean to the crack and speak through it.

“Pardon me?” I say. “Can—can I help you? Are you seeking a spell?”

“I am indeed,” the person outside drawls in a cultured accent, and his voice makes the hairs on my arms rise. “A spell, and clever hands to Weave it.”

Slowly, I rest my forehead against the door and shut my eyes. This cannot be happening. After all this time ...

“Open the door, Rose.” The command is soft but unyielding, with a faint note of warning hidden between the words. If I do not open it, he will.